


sources of constant happiness

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [30]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Asexual James Madison, BAMF Eliza Schuyler, Banter, Don't Trust Alexander Hamilton With Knives Folks, F/M, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Peter Jefferson's A+ Parenting, Polyamory, Squabbling, Washingdad, Washingmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Thomas moves in with the Washingtons. Hamilton helps, in his own asshole way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sleep is for the weak.
> 
> Enjoy.

As soon as school let out, Thomas was swept up by Angelica and Peggy, Eliza having forced Hamilton along (Laurens having mysteriously disappeared before the bell, while James had a last-minute research project for French), and the five of them took Eliza's car to Thomas' house. Thomas took a look at his clock. Two twenty-four.

Hamilton saw him staring, and frowned. "You don't think he's serious about the five thing, do you?"

Thomas winced. "My father's always been punctual, so I wouldn't put it past him."

Just as they were about to make the last run, a car pulled up in the driveway and Thomas' father stepped out. Peter Jefferson was a man of impeccable appearance, his attire reflecting his wealth as well as his disdain for people whom he viewed as inferior. Once upon a time, Thomas shared that attitude, but that was before he realized that he was one of the very people his father would consider a second-class citizen. Since when, he had made a point of passive-aggressively spending as much money on those less wealthy than himself, even going as far as to give away to charity. His father eventually found out. The fall-out wasn't pretty, to say the least.

Angelica frowned, her mind connecting dots and drawing its own conclusions. "Is that your father?" she asked quietly.

Thomas nodded silently. Angelica gritted her teeth. Eliza unexpectedly squeezed Angelica's shoulder. "Come on, we only have one more run. We can ignore him."

Peter Jefferson, in the meantime, took in the scene around him, his eyes immediately becoming drawn to Thomas. "So these are your new—friends," he said, lips curled up in distaste. "I suppose that they're as unnatural as you are."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Thomas saw Hamilton's eyes snap up to meet Thomas' father's angrily. Peggy stomped on his foot. Hamilton cursed loudly. His father turned to look at Hamilton. "Well, well," he drawled. "Have you ditched your last boy toy already? I must say, this one isn't an improvement."

Hamilton stepped forward, mouth opening as if to begin insulting Thomas' father (and Thomas did find it a little flattering that Hamilton considered him someone worth defending, but he pushed that insight deep into the recesses of his mind), but Angelica put a hand over his mouth. "For once in your life, Hamilton, be quiet," she hissed. She locked eyes with him, each staring determinedly at the other. Hamilton looked away first, and Angelica smiled triumphantly. "If you begin insulting Thomas' father, I will personally make sure you regret it," she smiled ferally.

Eliza smiled, her courteous smile cold enough to freeze hell. In that moment, Thomas revised his opinion of Angelica as the Ice Queen. "With all due respect, sir," she said in a tone that indicated that there was no respect to speak of, "this is no longer your concern. Thomas will be out of your house by five, which is," she made a shoe of checking her watch even though Thomas was aware that she checked it right before his father arrived, "in twenty minutes. Unless you'd care to help us, I would appreciate it if you didn't obstruct our efforts."

That said, she marched into the house, pointedly ignoring Peter Jefferson, who stood rooted to the spot before he began sputtering in indignation. Hamilton made the last trip with gusto, with not a single complaint.

Hamilton really didn't deserve the personification of amazement that was Eliza Schuyler. Then again, Thomas didn't deserve James, and yet he was lucky enough to have him. The world worked in weird ways.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

As soon as Eliza pulled up her car in the driveway to the Washingtons' house, Hamilton jumped out, all 5'7 of energizer bunny energy, and more or less barged into the house for reasons unknown to Thomas.

“ _Laf, nous sommes à la maison_!” Hamilton announced at the top of his voice.

“ _Nous_? " Lafayette's questioning voice floated in from an adjoining room. Sounded spacious, the sound carrying, but that was about as much as Thomas could deduce on his own.

“ _Angelica, Betsey, Peggy, Jefferson, et moi_ ," Hamilton clarified.

" _Oh_ ,” Lafayette said in an even voice. “ _Je n'étais pas sûr si tu plaisantais plus tôt_. "

Hamilton snorted. “ _Ouais, parce que j'ai tendance à plaisanter sur des choses comme_ ça.” He laced his voice with as much sarcasm as humanly possible.

“ _Mon petit lion, est-ce que je dois te rappeler l'incident avec le four_? ” Lafayette replied idly.

" _Tais-toi, connard_ ," Hamilton retorted sharply, though he was smiling.

Angelica rolled her eyes. “If you're quite done flirting...” she trailed off, her voice implying what would happen if they weren't.

Hamilton winced but joined the efforts of unpacking Eliza's car. At one point, Lafayette emerged from wherever it was that they were hiding (the kitchen, as Thomas would later discover), wrapped up in a bathroom robe and about three layers of sweaters, looking more than a little pathetic with their blood-shot eyes and running nose. They glanced at Thomas as he entered with yet another box. “I'd hug you, but I ab dot in the best condition,” Lafayette spoke, their French accent coming through stronger than usual. “I'b sorry about your fader.”

“Don't worry about it,” Thomas assured him. “Just…” he hesitated, “please don't infect me.”

Lafayette smiled. “I'b dot condagious adybore. I just thought id would be beder if you did dot get sdot all over your clodes.”

“Back to bed with you,” Hamilton ordered, coming up behind Thomas unexpectedly (no, Thomas wasn't startled, and would you please just _shut up, Hamilton_ ). He looked quite ridiculous carrying a box almost half his size.

Lafayette grumbled, but, when Eliza and Angelica joined Hamilton's efforts, subsided—though not before sticking out their tongue at Hamilton. Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “ _Tellement mature de toi_ ,” he deadpanned.

Angelica and her sisters left soon after unpacking the car, though not before telling Thomas and Hamilton one last time to _please get along_. Also, she told Thomas, don't let Hamilton touch the kitchen utensils.

Thomas was thus left alone with Lafayette, who was still too sick for Thomas to really interact with, and Hamilton, who gave Thomas a brief tour of the house—complete with snide remarks, which Thomas fully reciprocated—then took up residence with his laptop on one of the couches in the living room with such practiced ease that Thomas did not doubt that this was his everyday habit. It also went a little to explain why Hamilton's essays always were five pages over the limit (which was set in the first place only because of Hamilton), if he was writing on his free time as well.

Thomas decided to go to his room to unpack the boxes. He lost himself in the task, and wasn't disturbed until, by his estimation, a good to hours later, when Mrs Washington arrived. Hamilton was talking to her in a quiet voice when Thomas entered the room.

"How is he?" Mrs Washington was asking, and was that concern in her voice?

Hamilton winced. "I don't like the guy and can honestly admit that I don't know him all that well, but even I can see that he's repressing what happened. Oh, hi, Jefferson," he continued when he spotted Thomas, not even having the decency to look ashamed at having spoken about him behind his back.

Mrs Washington twirled on the spot, and, upon spotting Thomas, smiled widely. "You're Thomas Jefferson, right?" she asked—needlessly, as Hamilton had just confirmed his identity. Thomas nodded, unsure of how much she knew about him, and whether what she heard about him was from Hamilton or Lafayette. Mrs Washington went on. "I've heard a great deal about your from them," she said. "Both of them. Don't worry," she hurried upon seeing his anxious face, "only good things, I promise."

Thomas found it hard to believe that Hamilton had any good things to say about him, as he had, until today, nothing good to say about Hamilton. He chose not to voice that though, not wanting to offend his hostess on his first evening.

Hamilton saw his indecision and chortled with glee. Thomas glared right back. Mrs Washington turned to Hamilton with an exasperated expression. "Alex, don't be rude," she reprimanded. "Stop laughing."

Hamilton did stop laughing, though he was still grinning at Thomas. "Yes, Martha," he turned back to Mrs Washington. "As for Laf—well, they're still sick. Looking as though they had been attacked by John's paints, to be honest." He tilted his head.

Mrs Washington snickered. "That bad, huh?” she then turned to Thomas. “Now, I've only heard the basics from my husband, which he heard from Alex, so I assume I got censured twice,” at Thomas' confused look, she elaborated. “That you needed a place to stay because you were kicked out by your father. But that's it. So what's going on?” her voice was concerned, and for a second, Thomas considered telling her, giving her the full story behind this—she sounded so understanding, and it didn't look like either Hamilton or Lafayette were in the closet around their foster parents.

Then again, his pessimistic side told him, there is a difference between one's own kid being gay, and it being some stranger. Well, he backtracked, there is a difference to _most people—_ his father clearly despised him regardless of their relation. “It's not important,” he tried to wave off her concerns.

Hamilton scowled. “The hell it isn't!” he yelled, glaring furiously at Thomas. He turned to Mrs Washington resolutely. “His father kicked him out for being gay,” he declared.

Mrs Washington froze, her posture becoming rigid, her eyes filling with fury. Thomas glared at Hamilton for the umpteenth time—if nothing else, he would get to practice his glares more often. “See what you have done?” he mouthed silently. Hamilton ignored him pointedly. Thomas huffed; how typically _Hamilton—_ to just do a thing and then avoid responsibility for it.

“He did _what_ ,” Mrs Washington hissed. The temperature in the room decreased by several degrees, or at least that was how it felt for Thomas.

“Mrs Washington—“ Thomas began, hoping to mitigate the fallout. Thanks a lot, Hamilton.

“Call me Martha,” Mrs Washington replied reflexively.

“Martha, then,” Thomas went on. “It's okay, really. I'm used to it.”

“No, it's not _okay_ ,” Martha insisted furiously. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Who the hell told you it was okay?” she asked, making a conscious effort to keep calm.

Thomas looked away. “It's just that—“ he hesitated. “I've always been told that homosexuality is wrong and disgusting and _sure_ , I might not think so anymore, not after getting together with—well. But there's still a small, tiny part of me that kind of believes in my father's words.” He grimaced.

“Forget what he told you,” Martha said fiercely, crossing the space between herself and Thomas, and embracing him in a hug. “He's wrong. There's nothing wrong with you,” from behind him, Thomas heard the tell-tale click of a camera going off. He tensed up. Martha moved her head to look at Hamilton. “Alex,” she said sternly, “put away the camera. It's not a cool thing to do.”

Thomas could practically hear the pout in Hamilton's voice. “But _Martha_ ,” he whined. “I'm never going to see Jefferson exhibit any sort of positive feelings again, so I want proof of the fact that he is, indeed, a human being.”

“ _Alexander_ ,” Martha repeated, still not letting go of Thomas. “Delete the photo.”

Hamilton clicked something, and his phone made a noise. “Too late,” he said.

“You're a dick,” Jefferson muttered just loud enough for Hamilton to hear.

“Ditto,” Hamilton replied.

Martha rolled her eyes. “This is going to be an interesting arrangement. Now,” she extricated herself from the hug, “I've got a meal to make. Let's see what we have in the fridge.”

Thomas and Hamilton watched as Martha stalked off into the kitchen. “Didn't you say she only cooked when she was angry?” Thomas asked carefully.

“Or anxious, or worried,” Hamilton confirmed, then saw the look on Thomas' face, and waved a hand to reassure him. “No, it's not because of you. Well,” he amended, “it's partially because of you, but you're not the cause. She's angry at your father for kicking you out, and worried about you. Just let her do her thing; it's her kind of therapy.”

“I see,” Thomas said, though he really didn't. In his family, his mother was a stay-at-home mom, cooking meals for the family every day, while his father worked.

They watched Martha hustle around the kitchen, making an assessment of the available food products, then commandeer the kitchen as smoothly as if she had been born to do it. It was a stunning spectacle to watch.

At some point, the door to Lafayette's room opened and the teen in question emerged, still in their bathrobe but having dropped two of the three layers of sweaters. “I heard a cobbotiod,” they said, coming to stand beside Hamilton and surveying the kitchen. “What's goig od?”

Hamilton's lips curled up into a smile. “Martha found out about Thomas' father,” he said, not elaborating further; evidently, he didn't need to—Lafayette understood anyway. “It's an adorable mess,” he grinned.

Lafayette sniffed, which resulted in them getting snot all over their face. They groaned. “ _Je déteste être malade_ ,” they spoke, again reverting to their native tongue.

“ _Personne n'aime pas être malade, Laf_ ,” Hamilton pointed out.

“ _Est-ce que vous connaissez qu'elle fait_? ” Lafayette leaned idly against a wall, surveying the kitchen with a scrutinizing eye.

Hamilton shook his head. “ _Mais je pense que ça sent comme saumon_.” He grinned.

Lafayette made a face. “ _Mon petit lion, tu sais que j'adore le saumon_ ,” they complained loudly. “ _Mais je ne pourrai pas le goûter correctement_. ”

Hamilton put a hand over his right lung and adopted a serious expression. “I grieve with thee,” he said in a deadpan voice.

“Idiod,” Lafayette replied affectionately.

Thomas was trying to follow the conversation, and succeeded, for the most part; still, he had a long way to go before he could be as fluent as Hamilton, something which would probably continue to annoy him for a long time.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

By the time Senator Washington came come, Martha had finished the entire meal, down to dessert. George Washington took off his outerwear, then took a deep breath, and his face went from relaxed to as worried as Martha's had been when Thomas told her the truth. The senator crossed the living room in a few steps, coming to a stop by the teenagers. “What's going on?” he asked Hamilton.

For the first time in Thomas' life, Hamilton didn't reply. Instead, he shifted his feet, then took a long look at Thomas. “I didn't tell you guys why Jefferson had been kicked out, did I?” he asked, and was that uncertainty in his voice?

Senator Washington shook his head. “Alex, you've got eidetic memory.” Huh, that explains things. This might turn into a very educative arrangement, at least as far as Hamilton was concerned. “You know fully well that you didn't.”

“It's just that—“ Hamilton began speaking.

In that moment, Martha caught sight of her husband. She swept across the kitchen like an approaching tornado of chaos, managing to look frightening despite her 5'6 stature. “Do you know what Thomas' father did?” she exclaimed, her voice demanding the senator to answer.

Washington blinked. “Well, no. Alex was just about to tell—“

“He threw Thomas out just because he was gay!” Martha seethed. “His own kid! How dare he—that despicable, pathetic excuse for a fucking—“

Washington put his hands on Martha's shoulders in an attempt to ground her. It seemed to help, as Martha visibly calmed down. “I'm sorry, George,” she said. “It's just that—“

“I understand,” Washington murmured. He then turned to face Thomas, who swallowed. Despite his gentle tone of voice, Senator Washington was towering over him with several inches, and his broad physique did nothing to calm Thomas down. He had never talked to the senator face-to-face, so he could admit to being just slightly intimidated by this powerful man. “Thomas,” he began, and Thomas focused on the man's words instead of his appearance, “I just want you to know that you're more than welcome to stay here for as long as you wish or need to. You can be completely honest with us—I don't expect you to trust us right away, but know that you can be yourself, and that we won't judge you.”

“It would be quite hypocritical of them,” Martha chimed in, “considering that I'm the only straight person here.”

_What._

Thomas' face must have conveyed his confusion, because Senator Washington snickered, not unlike the way his wife did hours ago. “I'm asexual,” he explained.

“Huh,” Thomas replied smartly.

Senator Washington searched Thomas' face. “It means,” he elaborated, “that I am not attracted—“

“I know what asexuality means,” Thomas interrupted him, then winced at his faux-pas, but neither of the Washingtons seemed to mind.

The senator did give him a questioning look, though, which Hamilton caught. “Madison's asexual,” he said, not elaborating further, for which Thomas was grateful. Hamilton's brain-to-mouth filter was obviously broken, but it was good to know that it wasn't non-existent.

“I see,” Washington said at length. He tried to peer into the kitchen. “Stress cooking again?” he asked Martha, who nodded vigorously.

“How can you expect me not to, what with Thomas and all that?” she asked. It didn't escape Thomas' notice that she has already switched to a first-name basis with him.

Apparently he wasn't the only one. “She has brought you under her wing,” Hamilton whispered just loud enough for Thomas.

Thomas cleared his throat. “I would just like to thank you, Senator Washington, Martha, for taking—“

“George,” Senator Washington cut him off. “No formalities here.”

“George and Martha,” Thomas amended, “for taking me in. I wouldn't have known where to go otherwise.”

Martha waved her hand. “It was the least we could do, really. Now, George, Laf, wash up. Alex, Thomas, help me set up the table.”

By sheer miracle, Thomas and Hamilton refrained from stabbing each other with the cutlery, although there were a few near misses when Hamilton began babbling again and Thomas cut him off, telling him that his opinion was pure bullshit.

Then they were seated. In his house—well, his _previous_ house, now, he supposed—Thomas and his family always prayed before the meal. Elizabeth said jokingly that it was just in case mum's cooking didn't turn out as well. The Washingtons, on the other hand, did no such thing. It was a foreign experience to Thomas, but also sort of relieving to be able to simply sit down and eat without fussing around first. Thomas didn't know if the Washingtons were religious, but even if they were, they seemed to be more Lutheran than Catholic, which would fit with their opinions on _certain topics_.

Thomas looked around. Everyone dug in, complimenting Martha's cooking or, in Lafayette's case, complaining that they were too sick to thoroughly enjoy the food. Thomas shrugged. Nothing for it, he supposed. He took a bite of Martha's cooking and held back a moan, not knowing how appropriate it would be to make those kinds of sounds at the Washington dinner table. Judging from Hamilton's amused face, he knew—or suspected, at least—what was going on in Thomas' mind. Thomas settled for low-key glowering at his rival slash housemate. Hamilton shrugged, unrepentant, then went back to his meal.

Martha finally broke the silence, just as it was beginning to verge on awkward. “So, you said you were dating someone, Thomas?” she asked gently.

Thomas shrugged. Hamilton rolled his eyes and gave him the 'if you don't talk, I'll talk' look that Thomas recognized all too well from their various debates at school. Thomas swallowed his pride. “Yeah, I'm dating James.”

“James Madison?” Martha asked to ascertain. When Thomas nodded, she smiled. “I remember him from when Alex brought him over—“

“More like dragged him kicking and screaming,” George cut in with a grin. Martha shot him a look saying 'you're adorable but I need you to shut up', one which Thomas has been on the receiving end of for far too many times to count.

“—to work on their project,” Martha went on, biting her lip thoughtfully. “He's kind and smart—a good person.”

“I know,” Thomas said, unable to keep a dazed smile from appearing on his lips.

“Awwww, look,” Hamilton couldn't resist teasing, “Jefferson has it bad for Madison.”

“Shut up, Hamilton,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “It's not as if  _you_ don't make dovey eyes at Eliza and Laurens.”

“I'll freely admit to that,” Hamilton said, “and it's about time you do the same.”

“I'm not in love with your significant others,” Thomas scoffed.

“No, but you _are_ in love with Madison,” Hamilton retorted.

Thomas smiled softly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Let me reiterate my previous comment: how sweet,” Hamilton gushed mockingly.

Thomas glared. “I'll stab you with a fork if you don't cease talking, Hamilton. Don't think that I won't, because I will. You awaken my inner psychopath.”

Lafayette watched the exchange as they would a particularly close tennis game. George and Martha exchanged exasperated looks, then fixed the two teens with a stern expression. “Eat,” Martha ordered. “Don't talk until you have finished, or the both of you will be on cleaning duty for the next month.”

Thomas watched as, lo and behold, Hamilton closed his mouth silently. Huh. Maybe God really _did_ exist.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

After dinner, Hamilton went off to continue writing on his essay on animal testing regulations, while George and Thomas were robed into doing the dishes. Lafayette returned to their room, preferring to spend their sick time in bed rather than running around in the cold (“ _Mon Dieu_ , don't you know anything about illnesses? _Americans_.”). George and Martha turned on the TV and inserted a movie they had long wanted to watch. They invited him to stay, but he respectfully declined, telling them that he was rather tired, and really, he had school the following day.

Back in his room, he unlocked his phone.

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

I survived the washingtons

and hamilton

hamilton has a very bad mouth filter, did you know?

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

I am surprised that he even HAS a mouth filter.

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

yeah, me too

but he does

ofc, he doesn't use it AT ALL

he outed me at least twice today

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

How rude.

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

I KNOW

also, laffy is still sick

did you also know that hamilton and laf speak FRENCH with each other

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

Well, what did you expect from a French kid and a West Indian immigrant?

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

right

well, gotta go bc there's this pesky thing called sleep

(not convinced hamilton sleeps, btw)

(although I HAVE seen him eat)

so I gotta go

gnite

ttyl

love you

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

Love you too, Thomas.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

Thomas had been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since Clinton spitefully outed him. It eventually came in the form of Bache, a friend of Monroe's, who has accosted him between lessons when James stayed behind to talk with Hamilton and their history teacher about the assignment they had, once again, been grouped together for. He had explained with a beaming smile that, since it had worked so well the last time, he could hardly break up such a successful team, now could he? Thomas gritted his teeth but, since James didn't protest, neither did he.

Be as it may, Thomas found himself, for the first time since Tuesday, alone during a break, Eliza and John both being sick. It was just the opportunity Bache had been waiting for, it seemed.

“Hey, Jefferson!” Bache yelled across the corridor. “Where's your _boyfriend_?” he mocked.

Thomas closed his eyes. Keep walking, Jefferson, he told himself.

“I suppose he has left you,” Bache sneered. “Realized what a loser you are. Not that he is much better, of course, but you know, you shouldn't sink lower than you already are.”

“Or maybe you're just that bad in bed,” Wilkinson mused. “Maybe he wasn't satisfied with your—“

“ _Shut up,_ ” Thomas hissed.

“Oooh,” Bache grinned. “Hit a vulnerable spot, did we? Well, let me ask you: are you that bad a fuck that—”

Take deep breaths. Breathe in. _Un, deux, trois._ Breathe out. _Quatre, cinq, six._ He just needed to make it to the end of the hallway.

“Are you seriously running away?” Venable shouted after him. “You coward!”

The stagnant air tingled his lungs. He was suffocating; everything was just _too much_. He needed to get out of there, before he completely lost the ability to breathe.

“Piss off,” he shot back over his shoulder. “You lower my IQ just by talking to me, so if you would be so kind as to _go away_. Preferably _now_.”

"Yeah, run back to your boyfriend, you fag!" Beckley, one of Bache's lackeys, yelled after him.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "What did you just call me?" he asked quietly, still not turning around.

Bache grinned gleefully. "A fag, that's what you are, innit?" he repeated dutifully, his voice visibly delighted at having riled Thomas up.

Thomas counted to ten backwards. He turned around. "You might want to rethink that statement."

Bache smirked. "Oh, no, I don't think I will he replied. See, people like you disgust me, and if it were for me, you wouldn't be here."

Thomas smiled, then drew back his arm.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

"And that's when you punched him?" George asked for clarification, voice still disbelieving.

"Yes sir," Thomas nodded. He couldn't quite keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

Hamilton was downright _beaming_ at him. "You're not as bad as I thought," he said laced with approval.

" _Alex_ ," George said sharply, voice scolding.

Hamilton shrugged shamelessly. "Sorry, dad.”

Thomas fidgeted, fiddling with his shirt, now slightly rumpled from the brawl with Bache and his friends, as well as from the subsequent fingering.

George groaned. “Okay, you're grounded,” he said to Thomas.

“You can't ground me,” Thomas crossed his arms. "You're not my guardian."

George raised an eyebrow. “You live in my house, therefore you are being held to the same standards as Lafayette and Alexander. If you hadn't started a fight, we wouldn't be having this problem.”

Thomas gritted his teeth. “ _Fine_.”

George nodded, conversation over. On his way out, he threw over his shoulder, “Oh, but James is still welcome to come over.”

Hamilton was laughing when Thomas finally looked away from the now empty doorway. “What just happened?” he asked.

Hamilton smirked. “That was George's way of telling you that you shouldn't have started the fight, or at least not thrown the first punch, but since you did it for a good reason—they were being grade-A jerks, after all—you're still allowed to talk to your beloved Madison. Trust me, I've been through this a lot.”

“Seven times,” Lafayette added, entering the room and taking a seat next to Thomas on the couch. They raised an eyebrow. “I've been counting.”

Hamilton snorted. “Of course you have,” he replied affectionately. “Anyway,” he said, retrieving his laptop from his school bag, “what do you both know of regulations of animal testing? There's this essay I've been meaning to write…”

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

“Hamilton composes songs,” Thomas announced, swaggering into the library with his usual self-assured posture.

“And?” James didn't look up from his laptop. He clicked on something, and smiled.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “And they are all passive-aggressive and far too beautiful to be written by _Hamilton_.”

“And?”

“And he keeps dedicating them to me.”

“And?”

“… And then he _sings_ them. James, you don't understand,” Thomas insisted. “Hamilton has the single most awful singing voice I've ever heard.”

James sighed. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Just admit that you appreciate the gesture.”

“But I _don't_!”

“ _Thomas_ ,” James warned.

“ _James_ ,” Thomas parried.

James rolled his eyes. “You are being stubborn.”

“I thought you were on my side,” Thomas whined.

“I am, and that's why I think you should just suck up your pride and thank Hamilton for them,” he sighed, finally looking away from the laptop. “Thomas, I know him. He will just keep going until you do what he wants you to—in this case, to acknowledge that he's doing something nice for you. It's his weird way of showing that he cares.”

“Why?” Thomas wanted to know, and, since James was such a self-professed expert on all things Alexander Hamilton, why not ask?

“There are two things Hamilton loves above all,” James held up two fingers. “Writing and fighting someone. Now, physical fights aren't an appropriate gift even by his standards, and you are already arguing at least twice a day, which means that writing songs to you is the best he can do.”

“But why not just get me something befitting my interests?” Thomas blinked.

James sighed again. “The main characteristic you share with Hamilton is that you both think the world revolves around you. In Hamilton's case, that means that he considers these three things the only acceptable gifts, period.”

“But—that's just fucked up,” Thomas summed up.

James grinned. “Pretty much.”

“But—“

“If you are going to talk, I suggest you take it outside,” a librarian materialized over Thomas' shoulder, nearly scaring him out of his wits. She smiled widely, showing off all her teeth.

James bowed his head. “Yes, ma'am. Won't happen again, ma'am.”

She huffed. “I very well hope not, Mr Madison,” with that, she stalked off to her desk, leaving James to glare at Thomas.

“What?” Thomas put up his hands defensively.

James narrowed his eyes. “Either you stop talking, or you leave.”

“Fine,” Thomas said petulantly, standing up. “I'll see you later.”

James grinned. “See you, love.”

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

_To: Jemmy <3_

are you up for coming around?

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

Still grounded? :/

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

unfortunately

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

I shall endeavour to arrive at your castle in approximately five standard minutes, Princess Thomas, and rescue you from the big, bad dragon Hamilton.

 

_To: Jemmy <3_

thank you, fair sir knight

tho word of warning:

I'm not moving without mac and cheese

 

_From: Jemmy <3_

I know you dork.

**Author's Note:**

> Food for thought: Does James put the comma between 'know' and 'you', or 'you' and 'dork'?


End file.
